V for VENDETTA
by EugeniaVictoria
Summary: These bloody days have broken his heart. When SHE comes to him in a vision, he makes a vow that will bind him to her forever. Wyatt-centric story with a supernatural twist. Full summary inside. CURRENTLY ON HIATUS but will be continued once 'Henry Injured' is finished.
1. Prologue: I take my leave of the world

_**V for VENDETTA**_

**_Jane Seymour: "I have no greater riches in the world than my honour, which I would not injure for a thousand deaths." – Or would she?_**

_**Setting and plot:**_

_**May 1536. Anne Boleyn is dead. Jane Seymour, England's new Queen consort, is expected to provide the King with a male heir and live up to her reputation as Henry's most virtuous and gracious wife. Thomas Wyatt, shocked and bewildered at Anne's death, vows to avenge his great love and bring down those who sealed her fate. What will happen when he moves against Jane? It is when aspects of the past she's been trying to conceal come to the surface that the new queen finds herself in a dire situation, which soon turns into a struggle not only for the throne, but life itself. Mostly Thomas' POV.**_

* * *

><p><strong>PROLOGUE<strong>

**May 19, 1536**

_"I pray… and beseech you all, to pray for the life of the king…"_

He watched her from afar, his friend, his beloved. Pressed to the stone wall that shielded him from view, Thomas Wyatt clung to it for dear life, the cool bricks the only steady thing in a world that was slipping away.

There she stood on the scaffold, so brave, so graceful. She had never been more beautiful.

Her hair – how often had he marvelled at it flowing down her back like dark velvet? – was arranged in a simple style. Her face was pale. She wore a gown of grey damask and a thick mantle lined with fur, and Thomas could see that she held a small prayer book in her hands. As she spoke and turned her head to look at those who had gathered to watch her die, her pearl earrings danced from side to side giving her an almost dashing look.

She had chosen her attire carefully, making sure every piece of clothing and jewellery was of the highest quality. And indeed, she looked so very elegant and sophisticated as she made her final speech, pausing only occasionally to draw a deep breath or wait for the audience's reaction. Yes, she would die every inch a queen - and yet she looked so pure, so vulnerable with her hair tied back and her face so white, all alone on the scaffold for all eyes to see.

He thought he had never seen her so highly impressive, so composed, and yet so broken. The end had come and she knew there was no way out.

_"Wherefore I submit to death with a good will… "_

His heart went out to her, and it ached. Oh how it ached. His only consolation was the manner in which she handled this, and he was proud of her. She was doomed, but she carried herself with such dignity and grace that no one who saw her now would ever forget it.

_"… humbly asking pardon of all the world… "_

Was she thinking of him, too, even if only for a second? If so, then she must now that he forgave her and pardoned her everything, that he had always loved her. He still did. But soon death would rip her out of his life, and the thought was unfathomable.

Realising once more that this was the last time he would ever see her alive and breathing, he felt tears of anger and despair run down his cheeks. He clung to the wall next to him, weeping for her. She did not deserve this bloody death, this agony. She was innocent.

He watched as she removed her mantle and jewellery, and now her face was so sad it broke his heart. She said farewell to her sobbing ladies and then stepped forward to address the crowd one last time.

_"And thus I take my leave of the world… and of you."_

It was to him as if she spoke only to him, and all the years he had loved her flashed before his eyes. Anne, Anne, Anne… He wept bitterly, his body shivering in the morning breeze.

"Bless you," he whispered, unable to tear his eyes away from her. God, this could not be real.

He held his breath as she knelt down waiting for the executioner to strike. Her lips moved rapidly as she beseeched God to receive her soul, to have mercy on her.

A tear ran down her cheek and it was his undoing; he slid down the cool stone wall and for the first time in many years spoke a genuine, unselfish prayer. For her, and the safeguard of her soul. She deserved to be happy in another world… the most happy.

"Boy! Fetch my sword!"

The executioner's voice tore him out of his reverie. He perceived the peculiar swishing sound as the heavy sword moved rapidly through the air, and before he knew it he saw it slice through Anne's little neck, cutting her head from her body.

A gush of blood and nothing but blood was the last thing he noticed before his eyes glazed over, an attempt of his brain to shield him from a sight that would otherwise break him forever. He leaned his head against the wall, completely exhausted. It was over.

A merciful feeling of apathy engulfed him, blocking out the pain and the noise, even the noise of Anne's severed head tumbling onto the wooden scaffold and coming to a halt next to her lifeless form. He saw nothing, he heard nothing, and he was glad, for he knew this feeling of nothingness, this void, would not last long.

It was only temporary, just as severed limbs are numb with shock before their agony begins.

* * *

><p>How he dragged himself away from the place of her execution and out of the Tower, he would never be able to recollect in later years.<p>

The memory of how he lived in the days after her death would always remain shady, incomplete.

He ate little and spoke less, shutting himself away and drinking heavily. The shock of his own imprisonment, the events that followed, the execution of George, Mark and the others, and finally, the death of Anne, had left him shattered and broken, and he did not know what to do.

At times he was nearly sober and thought that maybe he would learn to live in a world without Anne Boleyn, never to forsake her memory. But then the realization of her cruel end would hit him once more, and after hours of drinking himself into a stupor to dull the pain he would lie down on his bed and shed bitter tears of sorrow. A sorrow that went so deep and was so all-consuming it sucked him dry.

Once, in a moment of nostalgia, he rummaged around for the locket necklace that contained a miniature portrait of Anne, her dark hair framing her face. A smile graced his lips when he found it, but as he opened it his hands started to shake, and at the sight of Anne's face he let out a muffled scream before hurling the locket against the wall of his room. It fell to the ground, shattered into two pieces, but Anne's image remained intact. He picked it up and pressed a kiss to it, his lips quivering.

She was dead. Dead, dead, dead. He would never see her again.

* * *

><p>She was dead!<p>

Henry sighed with relief as the trumpets sounded. With the Harlot dead, nothing stood in his way.

He let out a sharp breath he had been holding ever since he'd risen two hours ago. From now on, everything would be different. He would be young and merry as before.

Tomorrow, at the first light of day, the royal barque would carry him to Whitehall, where he would meet his darling Jane and become engaged to her. At the thought of her sweet face he smiled a gentle smile. His dream was coming true – by tomorrow they would be celebrating their betrothal and all would be well again.

The Whore would soon be forgotten, utterly and completely. Already the memory of her face was slipping away, buried in a dark place of his soul. All he wanted to do was see Jane and begin their new life together, and never had the prospect of marriage been so hopeful and vitalizing.

He felt cheerful, excited, reborn.

In a few days Jane would be his wife and they would live together in peace, caring for each other. A new chapter was about to begin, a chapter of love and harmony that would surely lead to the birth of a Prince, a son to be the living image of his father.

Yes, all was well again – all was mended.

* * *

><p><strong>May 30, 1536<strong>

When Thomas Wyatt received the news of the king's remarriage, he stood in silence for a moment, torn between disbelief and seething rage.

So this was how Henry VIII honoured Anne Boleyn's memory. This was the respect the king paid to the one who had loved him, born his child and died an innocent traitor. It was preposterous.

Of course, he had been aware of the king's growing affection for Jane Seymour, whose star had risen as quickly as Anne's had fallen. He had noticed that something was going on, that something was about to happen, though he'd had no idea what it might be.

Now he was much wiser, and knew with bitter certainty that he would hate himself forever for being either unable or not brave enough to save Anne. He should have appealed to Cromwell, should have pleaded with the King, he should have moved heaven and earth… It was too late to save her, but the nagging feeling remained. After days of drinking senselessly, of weeping and screaming over the unfairness of life and the death of his one true love, he was finally capable of thinking straight again.

He was as guilty as Cain for not doing more to save her life, but no tears of his would bring Anne back. She deserved to be remembered and bemoaned, and the deep sorrow he felt would never truly abate. But he could not go on like this, wailing in self pity. He would pay her respect, mourn and honour her, but he would not bury himself anymore.

After spending the first days after Anne's death in London, he had fled to Allington Castle, the Wyatt family home in Kent, where he shut himself from the world and found comfort in nothing, not even speaking to his family.

It was now, upon a spontaneous visit to Hever Castle, home of the Boleyns, that something in him was beginning to change.

Seeing the old Boleyn, who had returned to his manor after the execution of his children, turned out to be a fatal disappointment. Thomas had ridden to Hever in the hope of finding comfort in the presence of those who'd been close to Anne, but Elizabeth, Anne's mother and now an old woman, was dismayed and bewildered at the death of her son and daughter, and of no much help. The relationship between her and her husband was irreparably shattered, and Thomas Boleyn himself was a lost cause.

He was cold and aloof, completely lethargic. Wyatt sensed that, deep down, Boleyn was broken and had nothing left to live for. The great cause of his life, rising to power and wielding that power accordingly, was gone, for he had been deprived of his titles and banished from court. The death of his children was a thing he was obviously trying to block out, but it was of no use. He knew very well that he had as good as killed them with his ambition, and there was no remedy now, no comfort to ease the pain of their passing.

No, there was no comfort to be expected from these two.

He was about to leave when Boleyn, who was standing by a near window, said quietly without turning around: "Maybe you haven't heard of it yet, Thomas? Today, but a few hours ago, the king married Jane Seymour in the Chapel Royal. And to think that I told Anne once that if we acted quickly, we would hear of the Seymours no longer." He laughed bitterly, a sound that shocked Thomas to the core.

So the king was married again? But ... how could he?

He was confused. He needed to be alone. Mumbling an excuse, he fled from the house. He thought of returning to Allington Castle immediately, but then decided against it. Sort out his thoughts he must, and so he went for a stroll through the gardens at Hever.

It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining and, strange though it was, he found peace in walking the paths Anne had walked in the days of her youth. He strolled idly, grateful for the refreshing breeze after half an hour in a sticky room with too desperate old people he had sought out for comfort. He thought of Anne and saw her everywhere, and the memories were so bittersweet it tore at his heart. Would the pain ever end?

Finally, Thomas reached the tree under which they had once lain, before Anne went to court. He remembered leaning over her, memorized every contour of her face. He remembered her playful smile as she asked him: _"Women and poets are always free with their hearts, are they not?"_

He had feared then that she would leave him, and his foreboding turned out to be true. For she had left him, and everything fell apart.

He sank down to his knees, clutching the grass in his right hand in a feeble attempt to make himself believe that she was still here, that he could still touch her. Here she had lain, so alive, so full of hope for her future.

_"Never, if you value your life, speak of me to others, do you understand?"_

He had not. He would never have betrayed her. Only once had he forsaken her, in the days before her death when he should have done everything in his power to save her.

As he hovered there, bound to his grief under the great tree with its long branches that swayed lazily in the wind, he vowed that he would never betray her again. Glancing behind him at the castle, he smiled mirthlessly. He thought of Thomas Boleyn and all the others who had played their part in bringing Anne down, people who had acquiesced in her execution, and some of them had not even felt remorse.

He would not go so far as to say that Thomas Boleyn felt no sorrow at all over the demise of his daughter. But there were others, and three people came to the fore, who were guilty of either plotting, wanting or exploiting her downfall and death.

Cromwell, Henry, Jane.

This way or the other, Thomas saw these three and their desires as the main factors that had led to Anne's end.

There was Cromwell to whom he owed thanks, for the Secretary had saved him from the block. They had been friends, or at least allies, for a long time. Thomas had admired Cromwell as a "coming man", a man of ambition and great talent. But the recent events, and the part the Secretary had played in bringing Anne down for fear of losing his own position and influence, had changed Thomas' opinion of him. Cromwell was as guilty of murdering Anne as was the King himself.

He had never truly loved Henry as a subject should love their king. He had respected and obeyed him, yes. But true love and admiration? No. Not only was the King the man who had taken Anne away from him forever, even winning her love, he was also the man who killed not only Anne, but also George Boleyn and Mark Smeaton, two men Thomas had always regarded as good friends, Mark even more so than George. No, he had never loved the king and he sure as hell never would.

And, finally, there was Jane Seymour. Perhaps the news of her marriage to the King had not come as the greatest of all surprises, but still, it was a shock. Now that Thomas knew what this woman had been up to all the time, all with the ultimate goal of ascending to the throne, he felt nothing but hatred. She had presented herself as pure and innocent, and even he had been fooled. He remembered Mark saying, _"Ah she is pretty, the Lady Jane Seymour…"_

And she was pretty indeed. The perfect image of an English rose, almost angelic with her pale skin and blonde hair that surrounded her face like a halo. He saw her before his mind's eye, the sweet smile, too sweet. The gentle eyes, her golden head always demurely inclined.

To Henry, she must have been everything that Anne was not, and Jane Seymour had used that fact to her advantage.

Motivated and pushed by her ambitious brother and father, she had acted in a cold and calculating manner, no matter how sweet and benevolent a façade she had presented to the world. Coolly, patiently, she had stood by as Anne struggled for her life and her crown, and finally, even before the queen's blood had dried, Jane had risen to the throne and paid no heed to her predecessor's agony and death.

Now she was queen, and probably proud of herself. What a whore. She was the true concubine, the one who had washed her hands in the blood of Anne Boleyn. Maybe she would even give Henry his god damned Duke of York, a royal Prince, and the king would rejoice in her purity and benevolence. Thomas led out a snort at the thought. It was all so ridiculous, and yet so cruel in its absurdity.

Should the son of Jane Seymour succeed Henry VIII to the throne? What of Elizabeth, the goodliest and smartest child anyone could ever imagine? She had been discarded and bastardised, and Thomas knew it would break Anne's heart to learn of the ill treatment of her beloved girl.

God, there was nothing he would not do to turn back time, to gain some supernatural power and make it all undone. But what was there to do?

He sighed and sat in the grass. The soft breeze and the many noises of spring quickly lulled him in, and he closed his eyes. Birds were singing; the warm air of the afternoon touched him tenderly.

And in this rapt sensation, it was to him as if he heard a voice. A familiar voice.

_"Thomas…"_

He opened his eyes. No. No it could not be. It could not be her voice. He was hallucinating.

_"Thomas…"_

He did not know what was going on, but in spite of himself he whispered hopefully: "Anne?"

_"Yes. It's me."_

Oh good Lord. It was her voice. Undeniably. But he could not see her.

_"No,"_ she said as if reading his mind,_ "you cannot see me."_

"Why is that?" he asked, rising slowly from the grass and looking around frantically.

_"It's because I'm living inside you."_

Thomas bowed his head. So she knew? She knew he'd never forget her, would forever be haunted by her?

_"Haunted? No… I'm not haunting you. I'm living inside you. Don't you understand? I am a part of you."_ Her voice was tender. Why could he not see her? Suddenly he longed to see her face, look her in the eyes.

"Oh Anne," he said, suddenly desirous to relieve himself of the burden he'd been carrying. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I did not do more to save you. I should have – "

_"No,"_ she breathed, and it was like a caress._ "It was not your fault. You believed in me, you never betrayed me. You loved me more than Henry ever did."_

She sounded sad now, bitterly sad. But then, as if she was unwilling to think of the King, she asked: _"You were there, weren't you? At the ... execution. I sensed your presence although I didn't see you."_

Realizing what she meant, he nodded. "Yes. I was there. Oh, Anne. I'm so sorry. Forgive me. I know you were innocent…"

_"If it means so much to you, then yes, I forgive you. But there is nothing to forgive. None of it was ever your fault, Thomas. Please know that. I should be asking you for forgiveness. I was cruel to you. I failed you. And for this sin I shall forever atone, as for so many others…"_

Her voice was fading, and startled Thomas turned around, for he felt a movement. And there she was. She saw her before his eyes, just a few feet away. So very beautiful, so very desirable. He smiled.

She smiled too, reluctantly.

He held out his hand, and her smile widened, but she shook her head.

_"No… I must go… "_

"Where are you going? When are you coming back?" He moved closer to her but it seemed to him as if she was moving backwards. She was fading away, and he wanted so badly for her to stay.

"Anne, please! Don't go!"

She heard her pearling laughter. It was balm to his wounds.

_"I'll always be with you, Thomas."_

"Anne, please! Don't leave me!"

And when she faded even further away as if by magic, he held out his hand to her and screamed: "Anne, I will avenge you! I promise!"

He began to run after her. "I will take vengeance, Anne, I swear to you! They will pay for what they did to you. I will not rest before your name is cleared; I owe this to you. Do you hear me? I will avenge you!"

He reached out to touch her, but there was nothing. He heard her laughter, like silver bells, fade as he looked around.

She was gone.

Burying his head in his hands he sank to his knees. God, he loved her. He missed her so much. Perhaps this had been but a trick of his imagination, but it brought to life once more all the feelings of loss and sorrow and despair.

Had this been real? If so, then she had decided to come to him. She'd wanted to let him know that she did not deem him responsible for anything. Her forgiveness was what he had needed, he knew that now. His beloved Anne. She had come to him, smiled at him. Perhaps he was going crazy, but he did not care. It had been so real. And it did not strike him as a surprise that she would show herself to him here at Hever, where they had been together so often.

He knew now that he would never be free of her, and he did not want to. He would keep her memory forever in his heart, knowing that she had loved him too, in her own way.

And, by God, he would never let go of the promise he'd made. He would avenge her.

Seeing her before him had opened his eyes to a startling truth. It was his mission, ordained by a higher power, to avenge her and clear her name. It had not been in his power to save her from death, but it was in his power to take vengeance on her behalf. He had to do this for her, for her daughter, and for himself.

He would investigate, he would plot, he would move heaven and earth. And if he had to pay the highest price, gain the most loss, he would do it all. For her. There must be a way to destroy those who destroyed her.

_And if it is the last thing I do… I shall avenge her. I shall._


	2. Fatal evidence

**_"These bloody days have broken my heart. My lust, my youth did them depart, and blind desire of estate. Who hastes to climb seeks to revert. And about the throne, the thunder rolls." Thomas Wyatt_**

* * *

><p><strong><strong>The next day, Thomas rose early, and, accompanied by his mother and father, had his breakfast in the spacious dining room at the Wyatt family home.

For the first time since his imprisonment in the Tower he felt a healthy appetite. After his arrest he had not been able to eat properly, indulging only in his poetry and the endless waiting for news.

But now, 12 days after his release, and especially after his visit to Hever the day before and the decision he'd made, he ate heartily, all the while resolutely declining the wine the servants offered to him. He needed to think straight today, and drinking would not advance his purpose.

Looking up, he met the eyes of his mother and wondered what she was thinking. She had been exceedingly worried this past week, urging him to eat and to talk to her instead of shutting himself away from the world, but he sent her away every time she came to him, and begged her to leave him alone. She had acquiesced and left him to his own devices, and he was grateful to her for not pressing him any further. But then, yesterday, she had tried to hold him back when he suddenly emerged from his room, half-crazed, and announced his desire to ride over to Hever.

"My son, mayhap you should not go there. Not now." She had said in her calm voice.

"Why, mother?" he drawled in response. "I'm merely going to visit our old friends, the Boleyns."

Taking a step forward, she laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "To utter that name alone is dangerous just now. I beseech you, don't go. I do not wish to see my son in the Tower once again."

"Mother…" he trailed off, bowing his head, unwilling to tell her that he needed to be where Anne had been, where the rest of her family remained, even if they had fallen from grace.

But before her sharp mind, he could not hide his despair.

"Oh, son. She will not be there. She's gone." He felt the pressure of her hand increase, and before she could say anything more he stormed out of the house in a hurry to get away from her sympathetic eyes.

Now, he realized that she had meant well. She loved him and cared for him, and was afraid that by associating with the Boleyn family he would bring himself in danger of being arrested again. Thomas knew now that his mother had realized all along that, after his return from London, he had not only been upset because of his own arrest and the long days in the Tower, but also, even more so, by the death of the queen.

Of course she had always known of his love for Anne. Everyone knew of it, even his own wife from whom he had been separated for years now because of her adultery. There was probably no one in the Wyatt family who was not aware of the eldest son's passion for "the Brunet". And yet his mother had always been discreet about it, never prodding him with questions. When Anne became queen and Thomas' dreams of one day being with her shattered into a million pieces, Lady Wyatt assumed that her son's love would fade in time, or that he would at least be wise enough to keep it secret.

Now, after Anne's death and her son's return from London, she probably realized that his great love for the Boleyn girl had never truly been quenched, and perhaps never would be. Thomas knew that his mother had once been rather fond of Anne, who had been a regular visitor at Allington Castle and in return always received them kindly whenever they chose to ride the 20 miles to Hever. But he also understood that his mother was worried for his health and happiness, and he was determined to assure her that, from now on, he would pull himself together.

"Dear Mother," he addressed her now, pushing his plate away. "I pray you forgive me for my conduct these past few days. I was not myself."

"And willingly I grant my forgiveness, Thomas. It makes me happy to see you much improved." She looked fondly at him and then at her husband, who nodded in agreement.

"'Tis good to see you up and about again, son." He said. "I was going to ask you if you would walk with me after breakfast. I wish to speak to you."

Thomas had planned to go to for a ride in order to clear his mind and try to come up with a plan, but he sensed it might be wise to postpone his ride and go with his father, not only because Henry Wyatt seemed adamant about it, but also because somehow he desired the old man's advice on this matter.

"As you wish, sir," he replied, and they finished their breakfast in comfortable silence.

* * *

><p>"Tell me, son," his father began after they had walked a couple of minutes through the beautiful castle garden, saying nothing. "What are you going to do?"<p>

Thomas looked sharply at his father, surprised that the man would know that his son was planning something.

"I'm no fool, Thomas," Henry Wyatt said amusedly, shaking his head. "You came here, barely spoke two words of your arrest and imprisonment, then shut yourself away for days. Then, yesterday, you went over to Hever, and this morning you seemed changed, invigorated at least. What happened over there?"

Thomas shrugged. "Father, I don't now whether to tell you or not because… I fear you might think me insane."

"Nonsense. Out with it. Is it Anne?" There was a certainty in the old man's eyes that unnerved Thomas.

"I saw her, Father. She came to me in a vision. Perhaps I'm truly going mad. Then let it be so. I only know that I saw her and she was… oh, God preserve me. I am guilty."

"Guilty of what, son?" Henry asked.

"Of not saving her. I should have done more to save her from the horrible death she died, and please don't say 'You were imprisoned. There was nothing you could do.'"

Henry looked at him, hard. "That's not what I was going to say. I was going to say that there was nothing you might have done without sacrificing your own life in the process. Do you think you could have done anything against the rage of the King? Do you think you could have stopped him? And, do you honestly presume you would have had the power to hinder Cromwell?" He laughed mirthlessly. "Never that. They wanted her dead. She was doomed."

Thomas raised his eyes. "So you, too, believe in her innocence?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course I do, son. And believe me, I do not say that she always bore towards her betters the humility which she owed them, for she was a headstrong girl. But I knew Anne since you two played together as children, and I knew her as queen. She had spirit, and I would even go so far as to say that she was a good woman and also a great lover of the Gospel. But things did not turn out according to her plans, and once my lord Cromwell turns against you… there is hell to pay."

Thomas, grateful for his father's compassionate words, nodded. "But Cromwell was not the only one."

The old man frowned. "You better be careful, son, for was it not Cromwell who saved you and told you there was no evidence against you?"

"Yes, and I told him I was the only one who's guilty," Thomas said, remembering that godforsaken day when Cromwell came to him to tell him of the judgments against Anne and her so-called lovers.

Henry grunted. "That was a foolish thing to do. But, anyway, you are right of course. Cromwell, as dangerous and cunning he might be, serves the Crown. Therefore it must have been the King's own desire to dispose of the Queen that sealed her fate."

"And have you heard, too, of his remarriage to Jane Seymour? I pray God's wrath may come upon that sinful union."

Henry took hold of his son's arm, gripping it tightly. "Are you mad? Never utter those words again, not to anyone. Knowing Anne's fate, you should know better than to defy the king. And the Seymours will rise now. It is inevitable. That Edward… I don't trust him."

"He's a cold fish," Thomas said, shaking off his father's hand. "And I won't take back my words, even if I'll never utter them again in public, if it pleases you," he scoffed. "But I can't help thinking that the King should pay for chasing after that harlot when his own wife awaited death in the Tower. And hear me now, Father, I won't have Jane Seymour's reputation remain unsullied for long."

"What are you saying?" Henry asked sharply. "Are you really going to be foolish enough to insult her publicly? I implore you… "

"Oh no, Father," Thomas cut him off, realizing suddenly that he already knew what he had to do.

There was no need to come up with an idea, it was already there. The plan still needed to be specified, allies had to be won. But a feeling inside him told him that something was wrong with Jane Seymour, and that all he had to do was collect the evidence and present it to the world in order to let the games begin.

"No, Father," he repeated. "I won't stoop so low as to accuse her without evidence, as Cromwell did with Anne. I will find proof for what I know in my heart to be true, that she is a whore, a usurper."

"What evidence? There is no evidence!" Henry insisted.

"And who says that? No one has ever investigated her and her past; they all just accepted her display of virtue and modesty without ever asking themselves how such a sweet angel could wash her hands in the blood of innocents. No, I'm convinced, Father, I know this to be true. She is not what she seems."

"And if you find no evidence against her, will you abate?" his father wanted to know.

"If I should find no evidence against her, I will nevertheless do anything in my power to clear Anne's name, and if I have to defy Cromwell and his Majesty, then so be it."

Henry shook his head in disbelief, yet intrigued in spite of himself.

"So you are determined, my son, after she came to you as a vision, to clear Anne Boleyn's name and … avenge her?"

"That's right, Father. Think of me as mad, perhaps I am. But this is the truth and I'm telling you nothing but the truth… she came to me and I swore to take vengeance on her behalf. Don't you understand? I have to try. I have to make at least an attempt at avenging her, even if it is the last thing I do in this world."

"You are mad indeed. You just narrowly escaped execution, and now you are telling me that you are willing to die for Anne Boleyn?" He had never heard of such foolishness, and he almost cursed Anne for bewitching her son. What was it that made men go mad over that woman, even after her demise?

"I do not desire death. But I'm determined to go ahead with my plan. And I beg you, Father, as you love me, not to forsake me even if you disapprove."

They looked each other in the eyes, cautiously, trying to pin the other down.

Finally, the old man drew himself up and said: "I do not approve of this nonsense, Thomas, I truly don't. The Seymour faction will become more and more powerful in the next months. And to defy Cromwell and even the King himself, well, that is simply madness. But you are my son, and my son you shall remain, come whatever may."

Thomas stepped a little closer to his father. Henry had always supported and loved him; he was the kind of father every man wanted.

"Thank you, sir. I knew you would not hold this against me."

The older man raised a finger and shook it in a scolding manner. "But I implore you, for your mother's sake and mine, to be careful. You will need allies, powerful allies, and plenty. Time, too, to find evidence for your foolish speculations. And mind my words, Thomas, it has to be fatal evidence. Jane Seymour, no matter who she truly is, presents herself to the world as neither cunning nor spirited. It was easy to think badly of Anne, who was fierce and controversial. But, to his Majesty and many others the new queen represents all that is good and gentle in this world. It will be hard to establish her guilt, if indeed there is cause to do so."

Thomas inclined his head in admiration. His father was truly remarkable. He had once been a minister tp Henry VII, father to the King, and until a few years ago had been at court as a trusted advisor to his Highness.

"Thank you, Father. I will never forget that. And I promise to be careful. But, alas, when a man is summoned to do something, how can he flee from the responsibility? I would hate myself forever if I did."

"Then, my son," said Henry Wyatt, putting a hand on Thomas' shoulder, "I shall pray for your success, and may God bless you."

* * *

><p>Later that day, long after dinner had been cleared away, Thomas sat at his desk in his private chambers, scribbling down thoughts and names. His head was brimming with ideas and a plan was forming in his mind.<p>

He halted a moment to consider his father's words. He needed fatal evidence.

In order to get it, he could of course not remain in Kent forever. He wiould have return to London eventually, this way or the other. He needed to be in close proximity to the Queen if he wanted to investigate properly. But he feared going back to soon and being back in the spotlight, for he had only narrowly escaped death the last time. No, he would give it three or four weeks, when all the wedding celebrations were over and the King was busy once more with state affairs.

But, in the meantime, he might as well do something useful.

He overlooked his papers, and his eyes wandered to the name of Thomas Boleyn. Even if the man had been deprived of his titles and was persona non grata at court, he still had his great country manor and some money, and, what was even more important, he had an astute knowledge of the inner workings of his Majesty's court.

He, Thomas Wyatt, was after all only a poet, despite his position as a man of the privy chamber at court. He had never really made an effort to grasp the meaning and consequences of political developments, or, to put it differently, before Anne's fall he had never truly cared. But now he would have to understand the moves of the Seymour faction in order to destroy Jane, and that would not be easy without knowing precisely how faction building and maintaining worked in practice.

The old Boleyn would definitely make an intelligent and skilled tutor, and after all, who could now better how to play people, to push and pull them to one's own advantage than the Earl? And perhaps, Thomas thought, the man would be willing to pay this last tribute to the two children he had abandoned, to assist in the destruction of the one who had supplanted his daughter.

Whether Boleyn would be willing to help him or not, and he fervently prayed that he would, Thomas' next stop would be Wolfhall, the home of the Seymours. He was not sure if it was wise to consider a visit, but it had to be done. He needed to see the place where Jane had grown up, the very manor were, if he was lucky, some indiscreet servant might be bought with money, to reveal a secret or two. He had to take the risk, and anyway, he might still go incognito.

After that, hopefully with more information than before, he would move about the country to visit a few highly trusted friends and find out what they thought of the Seymour marriage, and what news they had from court, as long as he could not go there himself. He needed to be informed at all times in order to plan what to do next.

Putting the feather down, Thomas rested his chin on his folded hands and breathed in deeply. This would be the greatest challenge of his life.

He prayed with all his heart that one fine day he would have the leisure to write poems about its success, instead of mouldering in a cold grave in the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula.

But even if they were to put him to death and bury his headless corpse beneath the cool marble in the Tower's chapel, he would have one consolation - that he would lie in the ground next to _her_, and they would sleep together for eternity.


	3. For thou art dead and gone

_"Thank you for my gift," she whispered, touching the necklace around her neck and looking sweetly at her husband's face. "It's so very beautiful."_

_His expression betrayed nothing as he took her hand to press a soft kiss on it. But then, as he returned her gaze and she looked into those aquamarine orbs - so cool, so arresting - a strange shiver ran down her spine when he replied: "I soon trust to thank you for mine."_

_Of course._

_She smiled timidly, knowing what his words implied, what he desired above everything else. A son. The greatest gift._

_She felt as if the pressure was going to weigh her down. There was such an eagerness in his gaze, so much expectation._

_Looking him straight into the eyes in a weak attempt to calm herself down, she tried to reassure him with her smile that she, too, desired the conception and birth of a son so very much, that to her it meant the only consolation in this life._

_And perhaps, she thought as they joined in the dance, their wedding dance, it was also her only hope._

* * *

><p>They had been married yesterday in a magnificent ceremony at the Chapel Royal.<p>

Afterwards, they had celebrated, dancing and feasting in the presence of hundreds of courtiers. The food, the music, and, most glorious of all, the dances, oh, so many dances! And it was all for her! The King's new wife. Queen Jane of England.

Jane smiled as she sat by the fire in her private chambers, thinking of her marriage and the title that was now hers. She was queen now, the consort of a king who was one of the most powerful monarchs in Europe.

Thinking of Henry, Jane felt her skin tingle with pleasure. He was such a glorious man, handsome, charming, impressive. From the moment he asked her to allow him to serve and worship her, like Lancelot served Guinevere, as he put it, she had been smitten with his powerful presence, the very aura of him. It was a heady feeling to have such a man honour and love you.

Yes, she was happy now, wasn't she?

She had even managed to forget the anxiety she had felt on their wedding day, when his Majesty had made it clear that what he craved most in the world was for her to give him a son. She had always know that, had she not? And she was more than willing to grant him his desires, to fulfil her duty as his wife and queen.

After all, she was young, and this marriage, lawful as it was, would surely be blessed by the Almighty. Why should she not succeed where her predecessors had failed? She was quite confident that she would be able to do it, and then, when she had given the King his great desire, her position would be untouchable.

Mother to the future king. Jane, saviour of England.

It was a beautiful thought indeed…

Yes, she had every reason to be happy and hopeful for the future. She ought to be celebrating, rejoicing in her good fortune.

If only there was not that one thing she was so desperately trying to hide from her husband and the world - a secret no one else need ever know.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Meanwhile at Hever Castle, Boleyn family home<strong>_

"… and that's why, for the love you bore Anne, and for the love of your late son, I am asking you to help me," Thomas finished, looking up at Thomas Boleyn's unreadable face.

He had spent the last 10 minutes or so explaining his plans to the man and his wife, Elizabeth Boleyn, née Howard. They were sitting in the small but cosy library which, in better times, had been one of the most inviting and comfortable rooms at Hever Castle. But now the curtains were drawn, allowing only the faintest rays of sunshine to shine through the large windows, wherefore the room seemed almost desolately down.

Thomas gulped, waiting for Boleyns reaction. All the while, he stole glances at Elizabeth.

She looked better than the last time he'd seen her, but there was something so distracted and broken about her it was more pitiful than tears. He wondered what she must be feeling. Her only son and the daughter she had cherished were dead, her husband a man long past his prime and deprived of all hope, and she herself, who had once been one of the most beautiful and well-known ladies in England, now merely the mother of two traitors, old before her time.

She did not meet his gaze. Her eyes were on her husband, who rose slowly from his seat and walked over to one of the windows. He reached for the heavy drape and pushed it to the side, whereupon his striking profile was illuminated by the bright sunlight.

Thomas watched him as he stood there, gazed at the hooked nose and cold blue eyes, the grey of his hair, and noticed how old the man looked.

He was about to say something when he heard Boleyn whisper: "Traitors…"

"Excuse me, sir?" Thomas replied in bewilderment.

Boleyn continued to stare out of the window as if spotting something in the distance. "The law has judged them…"

Thomas could not believe his ears. "Sir, what are you saying? It's Anne and George we are talking about…"

"Traitors," Boleyn hissed, turning around swiftly. There was madness in his eyes. "You want me to help you clear the name of two traitors?"

Thomas got up from his seat and walked towards Boleyn. "Is that truly what you think of them?" He raised his voice. "Do you really believe that?" He wanted to strangle and kill him. He had not known what to expect before he came here, had certainly realized that it might be difficult to convince the man of helping him. But this – this was too much. Was this man before him still a human being, capable of human emotion, of love, of forgiveness?

Boleyns lips quivered. "I have lost everything… everything… we were so close… had come so far…" His eyes darted around wildly. He must be mad, Thomas concluded. There was no other explanation. And yet, despite the weakness before him, the obvious turmoil that was Boleyn's broken soul, Thomas wanted to grab him and shake sense into him, wanted him to realize what he had done. Did he still not understand?

"You have lost everything?" he said acidly, his eyes piercing cold. "You have your life. And even if it is a forfeit life, it still is an existence. You have a head on your shoulders. You're breathing. And, God is my witness, I wish you could breathe the smell of your wretchedness."

He watched the man struggle under his words and found a perverse pleasure in it. He wanted Boleyn to suffer.

"Don't you understand? You played a part in killing them. You should crawl on your knees, begging God for forgiveness, and yet you stand here, calling them traitors. Your children. You should have been the one to die, not them. Never them. Have you no heart?" he concluded, unable to think of anything else to say. He could not believe this.

Boleyn still stood there, trembling like a frightened deer awaiting the kill. Thomas had had enough. He was about to turn around and leave, when a loud wail pierced through the air, a sound the likes of which Thomas had never heard before.

It was coming from Elizabeth Boleyn. Her eyes were closed. A single tear was running down her withered cheek and into her mouth that was wide open and strangely contorted, as if pain itself deformed it. Her hands were folded in her lap, her posture stiff. She looked bizarre, but Thomas could not tear his eyes away from her.

From her body eluded such an air of misery and despair he wanted to enfold her in his arms and soothe her, if only to close her mouth, to still her pitiful weeping. But he did not move. He stood there, watching her, just like Boleyn, who looked at his wife as if he did not know her, and he seemed clearer now, not as mad as before.

Suddenly the lady stopped wailing, and, rising from her chair and turning around in one swift motion, she began to speak. There was a cool hatred in her voice that was spine-chilling as she addressed her husband, looking down upon him with disgust in her eyes.

"You monster," she began, shivering as if appalled by his mere presence. "How dare you besmirch with foul speech the memory of my beloved children? How dare you call them traitors, YOU!" she screamed now, coming closer. Her shrill voiced echoed through the room.

"You," she went on, "traitor to your own offspring, embodiment of cold ambition, eternal sinner, abandoned by God?"

She was shaking with rage, and Thomas was secretly glad that she did not deign to look at him. He watched in horrified fascination as she moved even closer to her husband, her face close to his.

"There were but pawns in your game," she said, her voice barely above a whisper now. "My children…" she sobbed, her lids fluttering closed, tears running down her cheeks. "Look what you have done." And then, out of the blue, she opened her eyes once more, raised her right hand and delivered to her husband's face a violent blow that sent him to the floor where he moaned in agony, holding his face.

Thomas could not believe his eyes, but felt a strange satisfaction upon seeing Boleyn so helpless and defeated. He deserved nothing less.

Elizabeth, eyeing her husband coldly, concluded: "I call upon Almighty God to punish you for your sins. I wish with all my heart that you were dead, rotting in the ground, and my children here with me. You have their blood on your hands… The Lord have mercy on them." She shook her head as if reminiscing. "Oh Anne, my good daughter. It was the cold ambition of your father that brought you to the block! And George, my only, my beloved son. I can't fathom that you are dead and gone."

Thomas Boleyn, still lying on the ground, finally broke down. "No" he wailed, looking like a pile of misery. "No… don't curse me, I beg you. I beg you, Elizabeth. It was not all my fault! It was not all my fault!"

"Yet you did nothing to save them!" Elizabeth cried. "How am I to live with the knowledge of their bodies rotting in the ground," she spat, "while you're still here, alive and unrepentant? I'm disgusted by you, the very sight of you appals me…"

She cradled her head in her hands, crying. Thomas Boleyn moved to grab her leg, but she shook him off.

He began to cry then, tears that shook his body until he lay flat on his face. "I did not mean to, I did not meant to…"

Thomas could not take it any more. He had to get out of here. With a mad dash he fled from the room, hearing Elizabeth's shrill voice ebbing away, "My children… my children…"

Before the house, he fell to his knees, shaking. He did not pay heed to the worried servants asking him if he needed anything. He was dead to the world, void of all emotion except despair.

What havoc the deaths of Anne and the others had caused! Why, oh why had God let it happen?

For the first time he realized that he was not the only one suffering, mourning the death of loved ones. There were the Boleyns, the Smeatons, the Breretons, the family of Sir Henry Norris. There was little Elizabeth, deprived of her mother for all days to come. So many poor people, bewildered in the face of eternal loss.

To hell with the King, Cromwell, the Seymours - everyone else who was responsible. Damn them to hell. They had brought about this misery.

Thomas sighed heavily. The scene between the Boleyns had shaken him to the core; he could not forget the pain in Elizabeth's face. He had not realized how deeply affected she was by the deaths of her children – she had always been a distant woman, gracious but aloof. Now he realized how ardently she must have loved her children, how great a shock it must have been to hear of their fall and come to terms with the fact that they would be executed. Perhaps she was even plagued by doubt as he himself was, endlessly wondering whether or not she could have done anything to save them. And now, on top of it all, instead of a partner to whom she could turn for comfort, the reality of living with a man who was descending into madness and called their children traitors. It was enough to drive any woman in her right mind crazy.

Thomas wanted to weep. He could bury his hope of Boleyn helping him. That man was done with life, so much was certain. The only consolation was that Elizabeth would surely help him and maybe press her husband to provide money and valuable contacts. Perhaps she even had some money of her own, after all she was a Howard.

He got up slowly, intent to go back into the house and retrieve his coat and belongings, when he spotted a movement not far away.

Two riders were approaching. Thomas narrowed his eyes, momentarily forgetting his misery. They were riding fast, and after a while he could make out the shapes of a man and a woman.

They rode over the nearby bridge and trotted onto the gravel before the castle's great entrance door, where Thomas stood. When they finally approached him, reigning in their horses, he recognized them, and he could not stop his heart from soaring.

There, followed by her husband, was Mary Boleyn, as pretty as the last time Thomas had seen her.

He smiled, happy to see her, his childhood companion as much as George and Anne had been. It was bittersweet to see her now, here at Hever were they had spent so many days together in peace, here, where nothing would ever be the same again. She smiled at him, too.

In that moment, Thomas saw a glimmer of hope, as though this reunion must mean something, as if Mary's arrival had a special purpose.

Here she was, "The Great Prostitute", once sister to the Queen. She, too, had suffered from Anne's treatment of her. And yet Thomas knew as he looked into her eyes that they were on the same page, bound to their grief, unable to resign themselves to the loss of the one they had loved.

Yes, they were tied together by chains that could not be broken, and Thomas was sure Mary would help him.

Here she was.

The other Boleyn girl.


	4. Who hastes to climb seeks to revert

Mary Stafford, née Boleyn, "The Great Prostitute" as they used to call her, was an attractive woman.

She had a pretty, even face and glowing skin, long chestnut hair, and a slender, lithe body that had aroused many a man, including two kings. In fact, judging from a conventional point of view, she possessed more classic beauty than her sister Anne, who had eclipsed her in so many ways.

There was a natural friendliness and candour about her that set her apart from Anne, and yet she was like her in so many ways that Thomas was instantly reminded of why, in their glory days, they had never been anything but kind and loving to each other, as sisters of the blood ought to. Mary had Anne's humor and that air of sensuality that was so captivating, in parts also her boldness and zest for life.

Yes, they were alike indeed, and it was a comfort to Thomas to watch her and be reminded of Anne. Still, it also brought forth a sharp pain, for Mary's loveliness and charm were tainted with sadness.

Together with her husband, William Stafford, she had arrived at Hever Castle the day before, with the intention of staying for a week at least. Seeing Thomas outside the great entrance, she had been suprised and delighted to find him at her parents' home, and they greeted each other like old friends. Thomas was quickly introduced to William who, although not of noble birth, seemed to be a witty and respectable young man. Thomas had been so glad to see them that he would have loved to talk to them then and there, but he was reluctant to stay at Hever any longer. Therefore he asked them to come to his father's house, Allington Castle, the next day.

And here they were, walking the well-tended gardens together, Thomas to Mary's right, William to her left, her arm entwined with hers. For the past half an hour or so, they had been talking about nothing substantial; Thomas told them about his doings as a poet and courtier, and Mary disclosed details about how she and her husband lived.

They had settled down in Staffordshire after their marriage, and lived there in relative obscurity and with very little money. Anne had banished them from court after their marriage, and neither of them had returned, although they kept asking their royal relatives and also Cromwell for financial help. Eventually, Anne had relented and sent them a golden cup and some money. They were able to make ends meet now, but definitely not rich.

All the while, as the beautiful warm air of late Spring caressed them, it was to Thomas as if they all tried painstakingly to avoid the topics that troubled them most. The dark shadow of Anne's memory and his own involvement hung over them like a cloud. He was reluctant to make the first step, but he knew that he only had a limited amount of time. It he wanted to go through with his plan of avenging Anne and get something moving, he would have to start now. And he needed Mary. When he had seen her riding up the path to Hever, he had known that her arrival was a sign. A sign that she had to play a part in this.

He was about to speak up once more, when Mary halted suddenly and turned to look at him.

"Mother told me what happened yesterday," she said calmly, but her eyes were sad. "After you left, we went inside, but no one greeted us except the few servants that are left. They told us that they had heard loud voices and a scream from the library not long ago, and that you had stormed outside even as my mother wailed miserably. It disturbed me a great deal, for I've been worried about my parents ever sine... you know."

Their eyes met, and for a moment Thomas saw in her dark orbs the same sorrow and pain that must be in his own. He nodded, and she went on.

"It is true they have not always been kind to me, especially Father. After our banishment from court he did not even speak to us any more and did nothing to help us. As I said, it was Anne who sent us money. And Mother, well, she is a good woman, but she has always held back, especially when Anne was at the height of her power." There was a bitter undertone to her voice.

"But now," she continued, "I'm willing to forgive all of that. It doesn't matter now. I wish to let bygones be bygones, you know?"

"I know." answered Thomas. "Everything is changed now. But not for the better. Your father..." He didn't know how to say it, for he did not wish to offend her.

"He is not himself," put in William, who had not said much so far. "I fear the turmoil of the past weeks has broken his mind."

Mary nodded solemnly. "Yes. He is broken. And yet, do not think it is just because ... because they are dead. It is mostly because he has lost everything. I can be no comfort to him."

"Pray tell me what your mother said to you after I left yesterday," Thomas said, unwilling to be reminded of the old Boleyn's coldness.

"Ah, yes," she said, shaking her head as if to gather her thoughts. "We found Father in the library, sobbing and with a strange hunted look in his eyes. It scared me to see him like that - I have only ever known him to be in command, so suave, so entirely sure of himself. Anyway, we then went looking for Mother, and found her in her rooms. She was sobbing, too, but I think hers is a different sorrow. She has lost the two she loved most in the world, and now she's bewildered. And she feels guilty, too, I guess."

"She told us about your plans," William added. "She said that her husband would not do anything, for fear of losing his head. But she said she would press him for money, and give you money of her own, or at least some jewels which you could sell off."

"Indeed?" Thomas sighed in relief. "That's what I had hoped for. I knew she'd help me."

"And so shall we," William said, putting an arm around Mary's hip and looking down at her. She nodded in agreement, and then looked at Thomas.

"Yes, Thomas. I have known you almost from your mother's womb," she said smilingly, "and I love you as a friend. For the trust I put in you, and for the love I bore my siblings, I am willing to help you. No matter what." She said this last with a stern face, and there was great conviction in her eyes. There was a streak of the infamous Boleyn boldness in her gaze, of Boleyn loyalty also.

Thomas smiled and kissed her hand affectionately. "This is glorious news. I thank you. I had thought I'd have to convince you."

Mary shook her head. She bent down and picked up a single daisy, twisting its stem between her thumb and index finger.

"Nay" she said, "you don't have to. From the moment I saw you, I knew you had something in mind and that you were as grievous as I. And then when Mother told me you wanted to avenge Anne and the others, I knew I'd help you." She stood still for a moment, looking at the little flower in her hand.

When she spoke again, her voice was strained, as if on the verge of tears. "You know how it feels, Thomas... the pain, the heartbreak. No matter who Anne was or what she did to me after my marriage to William, I loved her. I still love her. And I remember that once we were as close as sisters can be. I'm shocked, Thomas. Shocked and disbelieving, and I can't believe she's gone." A single tear slipped from her eyes, and she flicked the daisy away. William embraced her from behind, holding her tight.

Thomas turned away from the sight, so bitter was it to see her weep for the sister she had loved. But at least now he knew that she would help him, and her husband, too. He had taken a liking to the young fellow, and was more than happy that he would support their mission.

But what exactly was he going to ask of them?

So far, he had not managed to make a definite plan. He had ideas, yes. He had written down the names of possible allies, had played with the idea of going to Wolfhall, the counrty manor of the Seymours, soon. He had also meant to send someone to court, and then go there himself after a while. But there was nothing certain, no real plan.

He needed peace and quiet, had to shut himself away in his rooms and come up with something. He had to ask his father's advise once more. Maybe even his mothers. He would have to write letters and get in contact with people who might be willing to help him. And then he would have to consult Mary and William again and tell them what he'd thought up.

Had he not been so sad, he would have smiled. He was suddenly eager to begin, filled with energy. This was a new purpose, and a just and good one, and it pushed the pain and misery to the back of his mind.

"Will you come again in two days?" He asked his two friends. "I have to think and speak to my parents, and write to people. Then I'll now what to do."

"We will think of something, too," William threw in, and Thomas liked him even more.

"But always and ever be cautious," Mary intervened. "If we go through with this, we're all going to be in peril. Peril of our lives. We must be careful."

Thomas nodded solemnly. "Yes. I know of the dangers. And yet, what other choice do we have? It is we, Mary, who must mend the wrongs done to Anne and the others."

And with that said they walked back to the castle, where Thomas bid them goodbye and watched as they rode away at a great speed.

* * *

><p>Since his parents were out, Thomas spent he next couple of hours making notes and writing letters. He rummaged through his documents in search of the list of names he had drawn up the other day. Some names had been crossed out afterwards, some stood out more promintenly than others.<p>

_Boleyn. Norris. Brereton? _

_Cranmer._

_Smeaton. (crossed out)_

_Misseldon. _

_Brooke._

The Brookes were the family of his wife Elizabeth, from whom he had seperated a long time ago. She lived in adultery with another man, and he had not seen her or her relatives for years, but perhaps he'd be able to persuade them to help him. Elizabeth's brother George, Baron Cobham, was a clever and ambitious man, and Thomas had always liked him, no matter what his sister had done.

He had crossed out the name Smeaton as that family was of no account. They were commoners and would hardly be able to contribute money or wisdom. Alas that they would have no chance to avenge their poor son. It was Thomas himself who would have to set that in motion.

The matter of the Boleyns was now settled, and he knew what to expect of them. Help and support from the mother, and some money. That was a good start. He would have given a lot to have Thomas Boleyn's help, for despite his madness he was a trained courtier and knew many people. But it was as it was.

There remained the families of Brereton and Norris. Thomas was not sure about the Breretons. William had falsely confessed to having commited adultery with Anne, and Thomas knew him to have been a staunch Catholic. It was probably wise not to ask his family for help.

He was sure though that Henry Norris' family would be eager to contribute to the success of this mission, since Henry had been a good and noble man and died innocently. So, the first letter Thomas wrote was adressed to Richard Norris, the late man's father. He told him that he greatly wished to speak to him in the matter of his son, and included careful hints as to where he stood politically, for example by using Anne Boleyn's motto in his writing.

_"If you chose to grant me a visit at Allington Castle, our family home, in the nearest future, I would be The Most Happy." _

Before signing his name, he copied down Norris' part of the eulogy he had written for those who had died with Anne.

_"Ah! Norris, Norris, my tears begin to run_

_To think what hap did thee so lead or guide_

_Whereby thou hast both thee and thine undone_

_That is bewailed in court of every side;_

_In place also where thou hast never been_

_Both man and child doth piteously thee moan._

_They say, 'Alas, thou art far overseen_

_By thine offences to be thus dead and gone."_

He knew that if this letter found its way into enemy hands, he was as good as dead, but he had no choice. If he wanted to achieve anything, he would have to be bold and take the risk.

An hour later, he had finished three more letters, one to George Brooke, the second to the Misseldons, a family of reformers which he had befriended a long time ago and who had but recently sent a daughter to Court, and a third one to Archbishop Cranmer, who had always been so fond of Anne. In all these letters Thomas carefully avoided any hints to his real intentions, but to a keen mind they would be obvious. His only hope was that his writings would be handled carefully, and that all addressees would be willing to aid him in his quest.

When at last he put down his quill, a deep sigh escaped his parched lips. "I need a drink," he muttered to himself and got up, all the while trying not to soil his clothes with his ink-stained fingers.

He called for James, his most trusted servant, who brought wine and water. They were on friendly terms, if a relationship between liege and attendant could be described thus.

"James," he said after a while, an idea taking shape in his mind. "Would you be willing to go on an errand for me? I know you're needed here, but I remember you told me once you were keen to have some more adventure in your life."

James smiled brightly, his young face suddenly eager. "Of course, my lord," he replied, then sobered somewhat. "That is, if Master Wyatt will grant it," he added ruefully.

"Oh, he will," Thomas put him off, "trust me. Listen, if this does not sound like an adventure to you."

Then he told him of his plans, never doubting his loyalty and love for a moment. He ommitted some of the grave details, but told him plainly that he wished to take revenge on Cromwell and the Seymours.

"And that's where you come in, my lad. I had thought of going to Wolfhall myself, but I'll be too busy here, receiving people, corresponding, and so on. You see? But a visit to Wolfhall is crucial, since I need more information about the new queen."

James nodded. "I see. But, forgive me, would it not be too dangerous for you to send me there? You were but recently imprisoned. Perhaps the Seymours and the king would find it odd for a servant of yours to show up at their family home so soon after your release."

"You have a shrewd mind, James," Thomas said approvingly, "and you are right. It is not without risk. But risks I must take. And anyway, I was not condemned for anything. I am as free as a man can be. Few people escape the Tower, and yet I did. Cromwell still thinks fondly of me, or he would never have helped me during my imprisonment, and if I'm lucky, the king will soon welcome me back at court, too."

"But surely you would not want the Seymours to know anything of your conduct..." When Thomas shook his head, he went on: "Then what exactly would you have me do at Wolfhall?"

His master rubbed his chin as if in contemplation. "Good question, James. The good thing is that I'm pretty sure neither Edward Seymour nor his father will be there, and certainly not the Queen herself, so you don't have to fear their scrutiny. But there will be servants, and friends maybe, and the Lady Wentworth, the Queen's mother. I would want you to pay your respects to her on behalf of me and perhaps to deliver a small gift. It won't do any harm for the Seymours to think I'm supporting them, if you get my meaning."

"Yes, my lord. But still..." he had that look on his face that said: _You're a courtier and a poet. We need the opinion of a real statesman! Your noble father would...  
><em>

"Peace, James!" Thomas stopped him before he could say anything more. "I'll ask my father as soon as he returns to the house."

Even as he spoke, he heard the creaking noise of a coach coming to a halt on the driveway. He dismissed James for the time being and went downstairs to greet his parents.

* * *

><p>A few minutes later, the three of them were seated in the library. Thomas had asked his father for a talk in private, but his mother had insisted on coming, too.<p>

"Well, son," Henry Wyatt began. "What have you been doing today?"

He quickly told them about Mary Boleyn's visit, the letters he had written and the plans he had for James.

"As for the letters," his father began carefully. "I think you have chosen well. You know what I think of this whole business, but I said I'd support you, so I might as well tell you what I have in mind. I am sure Cranmer and the family of Norris will agree to help you. Norris family is old and influential, and they have a lot of money. And Cranmer - well, few men of the church have ever had such power."

"That's what I thought. And what then do you think of the Misseldons - and the Brookes?"

The old man scoffed. "The Brookes! I don't know about Elizabeth, I do not think she would be willing to help you." He laughed boisterously at Thomas' sullen face, but sobered quickly. "But I can imagine that her brother might be willing to help. Anyway, I think the Misseldons are a good choice. If you could win them over, they might ask their youngest daughter, Ursula, to collect some information about the Queen. She's a lady in waiting now."

"Indeed, yes," Lady Wyatt said suddenly. "It is crucial for you to have information about what is going on at Court while you're away."

"Very well," Thomas nodded, satisified. "I'll have these letters dispatched immediately after our conversation."

"And what about Wolfhall?" old Henry asked. "You're planning to send James there? I don't know if that's very wise."

Thomas told them what he had in mind. "You see, if they think I'm flattering them, supporting them, they won't guess what I really want to do."

He looked to his father for an answer, but again it was his mother who surpised him.

"Then do as you must," she said gently, "but do not send gifts, I beg you. At least, nothing outrageous like jewels. Until recently you were imprisoned for admiring a woman the king had his eyes on, remember? I don't want him to think you're after his next Queen." She said it jestingly, but there was a dark undertone to her voice. She was worried.

"As you wish," Thomas said simply, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to it, wishing to reassure her of his love for her.

* * *

><p>That night, though worn out by the exhaustion of the day, Thomas could not sleep. Lying awake in the gloomy darkness of his bed-chamber, he stared out of the windows at the night sky and frowned. Why could he not find rest, not even after all the hard work he had done today? The knuckles of his hands were so sore from writing they might fall off any mintute, his tongue was wound from talking, his brain weary after hours of contemplation.<p>

Yes, he had truly earned his sleep today, and yet it eluded him.

He was strangely restless, had been so ever since he'd made up his mind to go through with his plan, there in the gardens at Hever. It seemed to him as if he would not find true rest until this matter was settled and all things mended.

And there was another thing.

He had been busying himself so much in order to push away the memory of the faces that would otherwise haunt him once more, the faces of those who were dead.

_"The Bell Tower showed me such sight that in my head sticks day and night..." _

His own words invaded his mind with full force now that the darkness closed in about him, and the silence of the late hours weighed him down. He was full of sorrow once more for the men who had died but two weeks ago, two of which had been his trusted and close friends. Alas for Mark and George, with whom he had feasted and celebrated in happier times. Alas for Norris, so great a mind and loyal a man. Alas for Brereton who should never have come into the disaster that befell him.

_"These bloody days have broken my heart..." _

Alas for Anne, whose cruel death was the end to what had been a magnificent life. He mourned her so much that during the day he had not dared to think of her, for fear of losing his mind. But now, as the walls of his bower seemed to be closing in about him, he could push away his despair no more.

_"Who hastes to climb seeks to revert..." _

He wished for the thousandth time he could undo it all, but he could not. All he could now hope for was that his plans would succeed, although he did not really know what he wanted or expected the overall outcome to be. He prayed only that by restoring Anne's good name he would find peace.

But, what he truly wished for was to see _her_ again and hear her voice, her pearling laughter, like music to his ears. She had not come to him since Hever, and he was getting anxious.

He lay still and waited breathlessly, hoping against hope that by thinking of her he would summon her to him. But there was nothing, only the faint sound of a nightly bird outside.

When would she come again?

At last he fell into a troubled sleep, Anne's name still on his lips.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Alright, this chapter is looong, I know. But it was kind of necessary.<br>**_

_**Note: This story is based on the TV series, which is why I have made some changes to the characters. For example, Wyatt's two sisters do not exist here since they were never mentioned in the series. Also, Mary has no children by her first husband, in fact she has no children at all (in the series she's pregnant in season 2, well, in this story she never was). **_

_**For those of you who wonder if Anne will continue to play a role in this story, I can only say, yes, definitely. I think I may be going a little more supernatural with this story later... **_

_**Just to let you know, Jane Seymour's gonna get her come-uppance in this story ... I think I ain't gonna be too nice to her. For a more friendly and profound Jane, check my other story, "Henry Injured". **_

_**Keep reading ;) **_


	5. Plotting to avenge Anne Boleyn

_**When I thought that I fought this war alone**_

_**We were one with our destinies entwined,**_

_**When I thought that I fought without a cause**_

_**You gave me the reason why... **_

_**- Poets of the Fall - **_

* * *

><p>In the middle of the night Thomas started from his uneasy slumber, haunted by a thousand memories.<p>

Images and voices mingled senselessly in his mind; fragments of conversations and encounters flashed before his eyes until his brain seemed to be humming with the effort of unjumbling his thoughts.

_"Thank you, Thomas. I shall never forget that we were once true friends..." _

_"If she gets her way, she will set our whole country in a roar!" _

_"Were you in love with Anne Boleyn?" _

_"Something is happening, Mark, I just don't know what it is." _

_"The Queen was sentenced to be burned or beheaded at the King's pleasure..."_

_"And will you leave me thus? Say nay, say nay!" _

_"... then surely with my death I do now atone..." _

_"But I'm the only one who's guilty!"_

He sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair as he stared into the darkness. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't get away from Anne and everything that was forever connected in his mind to her life and death. It was as if their destinies were entwined and she would always be a part of him.

Not that he resented thinking of her. She had been his one true love, the woman for whom he would have died, had nearly died. The mistress of his passion, his muse, whose beauty and charm inspired him to write a dozen poems in her honor. This great love for Anne, which he had harbored for so long, was still burning in his heart like a scorching flame, even after her passing.

But it had never been a happy love, at least not after Henry came into the picture. Thomas' dreams of being with her had crumbled into dust when he finally realized that she actually _loved _the King and did no pursure him merely to satisfy her father's wishes. Watching with incredulous eyes as she rose to ever greater power, he had tried to come to terms with the fact that she did not want him anymore.

Oh, he had tried so hard.

Sometimes he managed to convince himself that she meant nothing to him at all, that she was no good for him. He would attend the next banquet or masquerade in the firm belief he had finally freed himself of her hold on him. But then he would see her embrace the King, or just watch her emerge from a room, and his defences against the old need crumbled. Just seeing her in Henry's arms, or the sight of her as she walked past him, her dark head held high, would trigger in him a myriad of emotions - jealousy, desire, bitter love. God, but she did drive him crazy.

Hurt and bewildered, he looked for comfort elsewhere. Upon a visit to The More, where the discarded Katherine of Aragon had been sent by the King, he met the Lady Elizabeth, and was instantly attracted by her sobriety and natural beauty. He started courting her, and she soon gave in to the lure of his poetry and his persistent wooing. Now, with the widsom of hindsight, he realized that she had represented to him everything he had always looked for in Anne, and never found: simplicity, softness, surrender. He hoped he had not hurt her too much. He had been fond of her, in his own way, and never wished to cause her pain.

Thomas sighed, trying to push away the image of sweet, kind Elizabeth hanging lifelessly from a noose. Unable to fathom the death of her beloved royal mistress, she had killed herself. He remembered falling to his knees when he found her, horrified by the sight. No, he could not think of Elizabeth now. His thoughts of Anne were torturous enough.

He remembered how protective he felt towards her later on, when things began to fall apart. He feared for her, but not once did he even consider the possibility that Henry would take such extreme measures as to kill the wife for whom he had sacrificed so much. Looking back, he wondered every day if he could have done more to prevent what had happened to Anne after her second miscarriage. The circumstances of her downfall and death still weighed so heavily on him that it resembled torture.

Reaching out to the small table standing next to his bed, he poured himself a cup of wine. He drowned the sweet liquid in one go, as if trying to wash away the image of Anne in the Tower, awaiting her destiny.

He tried to think of something positive, and to concentrate on his plans. Everything was going well so far, right? He had the support of his parents, Lady Boleyn and Mary and her husband. With a bit of luck, the families he had written to would be willing to help him and perhaps James' trip to Wolfhall would be beneficial as well.

In any case, he would have his hands full with work over the next couple of weeks, maybe even months, and the thought was strangely appealing. Perhaps, in time, he would be able to sleep normally and suppress his longing for Anne and the guilt that was nagging at him.

He had so much to do! He had to think of a way to have Cromwell and the King shadowed and to gather more information about Jane. _There must be something in her past to accuse her of, there must be,_ he told himself firmly. He could not pinpoint why but he just knew that she was not the one she pretended to be. He was not a poet for nothing. He had always been a man whom other human beings' whims and notions deeply stirred, an expert at reading people, and something about that woman was amiss - he sensed it as precisely as a bloodhound scents a trail.

He racked his brain with possible plans and schemes, until his lids grew heavy once more and he sank back into the pillows with another deep sigh. This time he was fast asleep until the wee hours, too exhausted to be troubled by nightmares.

* * *

><p>At six in the morning, the insistent cry of a rooster woke him up.<p>

He rose and washed off the sweat of the night. Then he combed his unruly hair and donned a black nether and upper hose, a fine white linen shirt, and a dark red doublet. He placed a heavy gold chain over his breast and chose a pair of high black riding boots, which he preferred to the heelless, ridiculously pointed or broad shoes worn at court. Looking into the mirror, he saw an attractive young man. The dark shadows under his eyes had almost faded, his dark blond hair was arranged dashingly over his brow, and his skin was no longer as pale as it had been in the early days after his release from the Tower.

Satisfied, he left his room and went downstairs. His parents had always been early risers, and so he was not surprised to find them breakfasting in the dining room.

James was serving them, all the while listening intently to Henry Wyatt's last-minute instructions. The day before, Thomas had asked his father to tell the young servant how he should behave at Wolfhall and what he was supposed to do there.

"And remember, you go by the name of Ralph Altington, servant to one Baron Morley - ah, Thomas!" he interrupted himself when his son entered the room and bowed respectfully to his mother and father. "I was just telling James more about the foolish task you want him to do." His eyes were stern but his voice was kind, almost amused.

"Thank you, Father. But, what did I just hear? Introduce himself as a servant to Baron Morley? Is that not Henry Parker, father to the Lady Rochford?" He almost spat the name of the woman who had played such an intransigent part in crushing her own husband, George, and Anne as well. "I do not know if that's very wise."

"My son," Henry began patiently, "think twice before you speak and accuse me of not knowing what I'm doing. Lady Rochford's accusations were extremely beneficial to Cromwell's coup against the Boleyns, and the Seymours profited from it. The Lady helped bring Jane Seymour to the throne, and her father is a staunch supporter of the Lady Mary and the Catholic faction. If James introduces himself as a servant of the Parker family, the Seymours' favor shall be his."

"But," Thomas countered, "what if the Lady Seymour writes a letter to Baron Morley to thank him for sending his servant to Wolfhall? Will that not blow our cover?"

Henry raised his bushy eyebrows. "I'm glad you're a poet, Thomas, for I do not think you would be suited as a fulltime politician."

Thomas frowned when his mother and James stifled a laugh. "What do you mean, Father?"

"Ralph Altington does not really exist. Even if the Seymours should write to Baron Morley, which is highly unlikely given the number of visitors they must be receiving at the moment, there is nothing the Baron could do. We are not friends with the Parkers; none of them have ever seen James in their life. It is perfectly save."

"But," Thomas began once more, "what about a commendatory letter? Surely the Lady Seymour will ask for one."

"Quite right," Henry answered smugly. "As a matter of fact, I have already prepared one." He gestured to James, who produced a folded and sealed letter from one of the chests of drawers nearby and handed it to his master.

Thomas peered over his father's shoulder at the seal and fine handwriting. "How... what-" he mumbled, perplexed. How on earth had his father gotten hold of Henry Parker's seal in such a short span of time?

Reading his thoughts, Henry stated simply, "I have my ways. Just don't ask."

"Father, this is incredible, but you're putting yourself in danger just to help me."

"I know. And if anything should happen to me because of this whole charade, I will laugh at my own foolishness. But I want to do this, son. I want to help you - and I have your mother's blessing, don't I, my dear?" He grabbed his wife's hand lovingly.

"You do, husband," she replied. Looking up at her son, she added, "Thomas, your father is a wise man. Trust him. And never doubt that we will do everything in our power to help you. After all, we have never been anything but proud of you."

"Mother, Father... I am deeply touched." Thomas stated honestly. "Now, if you will excuse me, I will see James out and then rejoin your for breakfast."

His parents nodded their consent. James received the commendatory letter and a brief but heartfelt farewell from Henry, as well as a blessing from the Lady Wyatt.

Thomas laid a hand on James' back and took him into the hall, where the young man's cloak was fetched by one of the maids and put around his shoulders. James placed the letter, some money Thomas gave him, and his provisions into a bag, then donned his feathered hat. Thomas helped him mount his horse, and fastened the bag to the back of the saddle.

"Go, James," he said with a friendly smile, "and remember everything my father told you. Farewell!"

"My lord," James inclinced his head and set off at a fast pace. Thomas looked after him for a brief moment.

James had to cross more than 140 miles on horseback to reach the realm of Wiltshire, where the Seymours dwelled in their great country manor, Wolfhall. It would take a couple of days to get there; then he would pay his visit to the family of Queen Jane and hopefully find out something, anything, that would be useful to Thomas' investigations. All in all, Thomas estimated, James would be gone for about 14 days.

Riders had been sent off with the letters he had written to Norris' family, George Brooke, the Misseldons, and the Archbishop and it would take some time for the riders to deliver them all.

The Brookes lived here in Kent, but Richard Norris and his family resided in Berkshire, more than 100 miles away. The Misseldons had settled down in Surrey, just a couple of miles south of London, and Archbishop Cranmer himself was to be found at the king's court, of course. Thomas had implored the rider bound for London to be careful at all times and to burn the letter to the Archbishop before anyone else but the addressee got hold of it.

Now he could only hope and pray that everything would go well...

Breathing in the fresh morning air, Thomas went back into the house to dine with his parents.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Meanwhile at court, London <strong>_

Jane Seymour lay idly in her husband's arms in the wee hours, breathing in his familiar masculine scent and listening to his soft voice. They had just made love, or rather, Henry had taken what was his by eternal right, and she had made a show of enduring it as a proper wife should. He was a good enough lover, and she had gotten used to his ministrations by now.

In any case, she had not been a stranger to this kind of things before their marriage... Well, there were many things her husband did not know about her.

His next words shook her out of her reverie.

"Oh Jane," he breathed reverently. "You are so pure."

Jane tensed a little but she did not let it show. _Pure. _If only she could say with conviction that she was indeed pure, that nothing had ever tainted her innocence and chastity. She knew, and had always known, that the king's love for her was mainly based on his assumption that she was a woman without fault, a gentle English rose whose virtue was dearer to her than life itself.

Once, before their marriage, he had sent the Duke of Suffolk to her, bearing a purse full of coins and asking her to accept it as a token of his Majesty's affection. She had declined the money with the words, _"My lord, I have no greater riches in the world than my honour, which I would not injure for a thousand deaths." _In spite of her modest answer, which she knew would please the King, she had realized immediately that her star was undoubtedly on the rise. What a heady rush it was, to know that this powerful lord was head over heels in love with her and would even dispose of his crowned Queen consort just to make her, Jane, his new wife.

Since the day they first met, she had done everything in her power to keep up the pretence of virtuousness and modesty, and, to her great surprise, it had been a lot easier than expected. No doubt her angelic appearance aided her immensely. She had been trained all her life to please men, and so it worked no hardship on her to use the seeming innocence of her face to her advantage. She had long since figured out how to curb her emotions, how to dim the treacherous glim of ambition in her clear blue eyes and smile sweetly at a man to bind him to her.

To her great surprise, Henry had been easy prey.

Hurt by Anne Boleyn's depravity and eager for a new beginning, he virtually jumped at her. During their short but exciting courtship, he showered her with gifts and compliments, payed her every respect and showed her a kindness so infinite it startled her. Very soon, she was able to understand why even a fierce and independent woman like Anne Boleyn had fought for this magnificent man's love and devotion until the bitter end - the tender look in his aquamarine eyes alone was worth many a hardship.

But Anne was the past, and she, Jane Seymour, was the centre of his world, the mistress of his heart. The Queen of England! Her ambition had brought her to the throne, and no triumph could have been sweeter. No one was closer to the Crown now, and it seemed as if Henry truly loved her. He often said so, swearing to her that he loved her more than "the late queen", as he usually referred to Anne, more even than Katherine of Aragon.

Jane constantly marvelled at his ability to fool himself. She was certainly no dense and demure fool - in fact, her thirst for power was as strong as Anne Boleyn's and motivated by less favourable things than love and desire. She had wanted to be Queen, and now that she was, she intented to use her status to her own advantage and that of her family. But she knew she had to be careful.

Henry would tolerate no dissent now, not after realizing that he had the power to get rid of a wife as savvy and influential as Anne Boleyn. He would suffer no tantrums from his Queen and would reprimand her, should she dare to speak up against him. What he wanted was obedience, utter and complete submission to his will, and Jane was prepared to give it to him. She had never been one to show her emotions openly, much like Katherine of Aragon. She would hide her true feelings and try to influence him subtly, so that no one could accuse her of scheming. _One catches more flies with honey than with vinegar,_ her mother had often told her.

There was one thing, though, that must be achieved before she could truly relax: she had to conceive a child. She knew that Henry was convinced that she would be the one to give him his much-anticipated son, and the pressure was immense. If she failed to bear him a male heir, he might still get rid of her, no matter how much he professed to love and worship her. She refused to think of what exactly he might do to her, should she not give him his great desire. They had only been maried for a short while now, but soon he would expect her to conceive. She had to get pregnant, she just _had_ to. The birth of a royal prince would make her invincible.

Sighing, she rested her head on his shoulder and tried hard to hide her troubled thoughts from him. He gently stroked the bare skin of her arm and laid his head on hers, whispering sweet nothings into her ear.

"How would you like to go hunting tomorrow, Jane?" he asked eventually. "I'll be too busy today, but I should like to go and get some fresh air tomorrow."

"If that is what your Majesty desires," Jane replied demurely.

Pleased with her answer, Henry smiled. "We should take advantage of the beautiful weather, and, in any case, in the near future it may be impossible for you to go riding."

"My lord, I beg your pardon?" Jane asked with fake innocence although she knew very well what his words implied.

"Well, during pregnancy it is custom for women not to ride out, is it not, my Queen?" His words were dripping with anticipation and good-natured innuendo.

"Indeed," Jane managed a faint blush, "it is so, your Majesty."

Henry laughed and squeezed her shoulder. "I have no doubt, Jane, that you will make me the happiest man in England." He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep mere minutes later, desirous to rest a little longer before he would have to get up and fulfill his kingly duties.

Jane gazed into space and released a sharp breath, realising what she had gotten herself into. Closing her eyes involuntarily, she wondered what the future would bring.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Allington Castle <strong>_

During breakfast, Henry Wyatt suggested to his son to ride over to Leeds Castle, where the family of Sir John Shelton resided. _*****_

John Shelton had married Anne, the sister of Thomas Boleyn. Their daughter, Lady Margaret "Madge" Shelton, was therefore cousin to Anne, George, and Mary Boleyn, and very well-known to the Wyatt family.

In fact, she had once been part of a social group Thomas himself had also belonged to. Together with the poet Clere, the Earl of Surrey, and the ladies Margaret Douglas and Mary Howard, they had written, exchanged and shared poems. Madge herself was the main contributor to the famous Devonshire MS, where members of their circle wrote poems they enjoyed or had composed. Once, they had all been good friends but when Madge went to court to serve her cousin Queen Anne, and Thomas himself became a member of the Privy Chamber, the group had dispersed.

Thomas did not quite know what to think of his father's idea. He had always appreciated of Madge, for she was a sweet and playful girl with a great love of poetry and music. She had served Anne diligently, even going so far as to become the king's mistress when the Queen told her that she needed someone in the king's bed whom she could trust.

And yet she had played a part in Anne's destruction, for she had borne testimony against her Mistress under oath... But Thomas knew how Cromwell's interrogations worked, and he could imagine the pressure the Secretary and Sir Richard Rich must have put on the young woman, telling her that she would place herself in very great danger if she did not tell them what she knew.

He had learned from his father that Madge had eventually admitted to having watched Anne with Mark Smeaton and her brother George in the privacy of her chambers, kissing and embracing them. Cromwell and Rich, ruthless and clever as they were, had then taken her statements and twisted them until they could be used as fatal evidence against the Queen, together with the false accusations of Lady Rochford and the "confessions" of Brereton and Mark Smeaton.

Madge had buckled under pressure, and how could Thomas blame her? More noble and steadfast people than her had done so in the past, and being in a cold, dark room with Secretary Cromwell, looking at her sternly and interrogating her as if she were a traitor herself, must have been too much for the lady.

"She has returned to the family home," Henry Wyatt interrupted his son's thoughts. "I presume her parents did not want the Boleyn affair to affect her reputation in any way. She's a gentlewoman, after all."

"A gentlewoman who witnessed against Anne," Thomas smiled sardonically.

Henry merely gave him a look, as if knowing that Thomas was aware of the the reasons for Madge's treachery. "I think you should talk to her. You were good friends once, were you not?"

Thomas shrugged. "We were indeed... But what good would talking to her do me? You do not think that she would reveal anything about the investigation, do you? If she knows anything at all. But I'm sure she's still scared..." he trailed off, thinking hard. His fathers eyes were boring into his skin. Then, suddenly, Thomas looked up. "Ah," he said simply, "you think I should pressure her, appeal to her morality in order to win her support."

Henry nodded imperiously. "Exactly. I'm sure she feels guilty about what happened to Anne because of her and the others' testimony against the Queen. If you could pressure her into helping you, I'm sure it would greatly help your cause."

"Even if she had but the slightest information about the interrogation, it might prove to be helpful in the end," Thomas agreed, for the hundreth time amazed at his father's sharp mind.

"Indeed. Also, any helping hand will be useful to you. And just think what the support of the Shelton family would mean. They are Reformers, and surely unwilling to promote the Seymours' interests. I think you should give it a try."

"What do you think, Mother?" Thomas threw in. His mother was a quiet and thoughtful woman but he knew her to be intelligent and cautious.

She smiled kindly. "If you're interested in a woman's advice, here it is. Remind Madge of all the things the late queen did for her, and of God's punishment for those who bear false witness against others. Give her the chance to pour her heart out and then offer her a chance to make up for her betrayal. But always and ever be subtle about it, and do not give away too much. I shall have your horse prepared," she concluded, relieving him of the decision whether or not he should go.

He merely muttered his thanks as she got up from her chair and left the room to give the servants the necessary instructions.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Leeds Castle, home of the Sheltons <strong>_

Madge Shelton was not particularly pleased to see Thomas Wyatt.

She had not seen him since shortly before his arrest, and the unwelcome memories of the events that led to Anne Boleyn's downfall and death, memories she had been trying to bury somewhere deep inside of her, returned with full force to torment and torture her.

Sitting across from him in the dining room as he recounted the part she had played in destroying her royal mistress, she almost hated him. How dare he remind her of the darkest episode of her young life? Must he pry with dirty fingers and stir in her the kind of emotions she had done her best to suppress in the last few weeks? She knew very well what she had done to the Queen, who had never been anything but kind to her, and she did not wish to be reminded of it.

But Thomas just wouldn't let it be.

"I'm surprised at you, Madge," he said with a frown on his handsome face, "I did not know you could be so heartless - "

"I'm not heartless!" She protested, her carefully composed exterior cracking.

"Then why won't you confide in me?" Thomas retorted. "I need your help, Madge."

He had abandoned the thought of fooling around with her. He had not told her exactly what he was planning but had revealed enough so that she could guess what his true intentions were. He needed information from her but she was being offhand and secretive.

Madge's lips contorted as if she was not sure how to react to his words. Finally, abandoning her good breeding, she got up from her chair and began to pace back and forth, stopping only to gaze out of the window for a brief moment. She could feel Thomas' eyes boring into her back.

"It's -" She paused to think, still not turning around. "It's not that easy."

"I've got plenty of time," Thomas said dryly.

A long silence followed.

"Yes," Madge finally admitted in a meek voice, her shoulders slagging. "I did bear testimony against the Queen. But... but... it was only because my lord Secretary Cromwell pressured me! He said horrible things to me... He told me what would happen to me if I did not tell him everything..."

She shivered, terrified by the mere memory of the interrogation. She had not wanted to bring about Anne's death. She had been so scared though, so terribly scared. And, after all, she _had_ seen Anne with Mark Smeaton and George Boleyn. She had told Cromwell the truth, and he had twisted and contorted her words until they suited his cruel intentions.

"Oh, God..." she continued, a single tear running down her round cheek. "It... it was not my intention to harm the Queen, Thomas. You must believe me. I was scared and confused and... and perhaps I was even a bit agitated because of the Queen's mood swings and... and... "

"What?" Thomas prodded, although deeply moved. She looked so pitiful, her shoulders trembling and her head shaking in denial.

"I - I think I was jealous of her, too, but only a little, I swear to you!"

Thomas went over to where she was standing and, gently, laid a hand upon her shoulder. He turned her around slowly, looking into her tear-stained face. "What on earth are you talking about, Madge?" He managed a smile. "You can trust me, I promise."

She believed him, and suddenly she felt the urge to relieve herself of the burden she was carrying, to tell him everything. "Maybe I was jealous of her because... because Sir Henry Norris wanted her, not me. He would always come to her rooms, pretending to court me, when all he really wanted was to see her, not me. He worshipped her, and I - I did not love him, but he was a good man, and I - "

Realising what she was saying, Thomas' hand on her shoulder tightened. _Of course_, he chided himself. Norris! Norris had shown an interest in Madge, but it seemed as if his true desire had been to spend time with the Queen herself. Who could blame him? Most women would pale in comparison to Anne. Thomas did not believe for a moment that anything had ever happened between them - Norris had been too much of a gentleman, and Anne a faithful wife - but Norris interest in her had proved to be fatal in the end.

"Are you saying that you wanted him for yourself, and when you could not have him, you did not want the Queen to have him either?" He was appalled at the thought.

"No, no!" Madge shouted, not caring who might hear her. "It's not like that! It's just that I - I... oh God, I don't know! I'm sorry!"

"I see," Thomas said with perfectly calculated indignation, turning away from her as if to leave the room. He could not hide a tiny smile when he heard her call after him: "No, Thomas, wait! Please! I'll do anything!"

He turned around to face her as she began to speak rapidly. "Please, I'll make up for what I've done. I'll try. And I'll tell you everything I can think of, although I'm sure I know nothing you do not already know."

And she did tell him everything, from her own interrogation to everything she knew about the interrogations of Anne "Nan" Seville and the others who had been questioned by Cromwell. Thomas listened intently, but he was beginning to agree with her that there was nothing that could be useful to him. He already knew of Lady Rochford's accusations and Brereton's false confession...

"And then there's that letter Nan got hold of after Anne's execution. I don't quite remember... I think it was a letter from Brereton to some unmentioned addressee - a farewell letter. I'm not sure how exactly Nan did get hold of it because she never had any contact with him. But, one of her relatives served the Queen during her imprisonment in the Tower and somehow it came into her hands, and - "

Thomas' head jerked upwards. "A letter? What letter?"

Madge frowned, irritated. "A farewell letter, as I said. It's - I'm sorry if I've caused more harm than I already did when Cromwell interrogated me. I wanted to contact you, but the grief was still too near, and so I didn't ..."

"Madge! What does that letter say?" Thomas was completely on edge.

"Oh, God. In it, Brereton confesses to having borne false testimony against the Queen's Majesty, or the "Concubine" as he puts it. He goes on to say that several people knew of his and her innocence, and of the fact that he lied when Cromwell interrogated him."

"Who? Who knew of it?" Thomas pressed her on.

"His Excellency the Imperial Ambassador, and members of the Seymour family."

Thomas jumped up from his chair. "Oh, my God, Madge! This is - horrible! Horrible and magnificent! And you're saying that Nan is in possession of that letter?"

"Yes. I think her relative retrieved it from Brereton's belongings, although how she did it I cannot tell. He must have written that letter in the last days before his execution."

"And I presume she was too afraid to forward it to anyone," Thomas reckoned.

Madge nodded. "Yes, and, after all, had she given it to my lord Secretary Cromwell, he would have burned it, right? What interest could he have in proving Brereton's innocence? The days after the executions were not exactly the right time to speak openly of the fate of Anne Boleyn."

Thomas almost smiled. "There's more to you than the eyes can see, Madge," he said kindly. "Now, do you think you could get hold of that letter? I know Nan loved the Queen a great deal, and she too must be feeling guilty about what happened."

Madge nodded sadly. "Oh, yes. She's more heartbroken than I could ever be, for she _truly_ loved her Majesty. I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, Madge. I think having that letter would help me a great deal."

"What exactly are you going to do, Master Wyatt?" She asked a little mischievously. It reminded Thomas a lot of the old Madge, a carefree and giggly young woman.

"Oh, you'll see, Madge," he replied with a secretive smile. "You'll see."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Historically, the Sheltons never lived at Leeds Castle but outisde of Kent. Still, I placed them in Kent because otherwise Thomas would have had to ride more than a hundred miles, and it was just more convenient to make this small change and pretend they lived not far from Allington Castle.<br>**_


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